


Facing it All

by UrgentOrange



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrgentOrange/pseuds/UrgentOrange
Summary: As he recovers from his knife wound, Soap has nothing but time on his hands. Stuck flat on his back in the infirmary, he's forced to deal with what happened, what could have been, and how his injury puts both himself and Price at risk. Companion piece to Thanatos Denied.





	1. DAY TWO

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Caught in the System](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/350031) by Sassy Satsuma. 



> This was written back at the end of 2012, where I *thought* I was halfway through writing TD -- which turned out to be true after all, that second half just took five years longer! 
> 
> In my second year of writing, I was still learning the basics, and was very unsure of myself. TD was the first and only story I'd ever attempted. I was still pretty uncomfortable with dialogue and only wrote in Price's POV. The story was suffering as a result. I needed to include multiple POVs but I didn't know what to do with anyone else, so this was an exercise to figure it out. I had to find a way into MacTavish's head, find his voice and take him for a joyride.
> 
> This was originally meant to be a oneshot, to be shared only with Sassy Satsuma. Soon I was having a blast writing it. It involved no pressure and no research for once (except referring back to CITS a couple of times) and before I knew it, it had morphed into a short story, a sort of crossover between TD and CITS. I love her characterizations so much and wanted to touch on them. This marked the point where references to an unnamed love interest (her OC Lara McCoy) started popping up in TD ;-)
> 
> Kinda betaed by Sass. A love letter to CoD4:MW, a valuable lesson and a favorite piece, I hope you enjoy it.

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER:_ ** _The Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series is the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

**_Profanity level:_ ** _Scotsman_

_Starts on the day after he's stabbed, when he first wakes up._

* * *

 

"Deep breath…yes. Now big breath out – like blowing out candle," says a voice with a thick accent.

I gag as they pull it out. A moment of great relief, until cold air hits my raw throat. I cough; dull pain stabs me. Done this before.

Pressure on my face. "Breathe." Air smells odd, stuffy.

A few sounds and sensations push their way through the gray haze. Warm weight pressing down on me. Beeping. I can hear low voices speaking Russian, feel the air shift as they move around me. A grinding hum just behind my head somewhere.

Time passes. I drift in and out.

The fog in my head is lifting, and there's something nagging at me, something important. I struggle to remember, and suddenly I wish I hadn't. Ghost and Roach are dead. When I last heard their voices, they were calling for exfil - for help. 'Help' came, then they were gone. Forever. Just me and Price now.

My chest is tight, dread coils in the pit of my stomach. I try to swallow, my mouth is dry. I blink and squint into the dim blur. Something blowing air into my nostrils. Can't reach it…I look down at my wrist, feel like my head might roll off my shoulders. Someone's asking me if I remember him. Yes, no…maybe? Looks like there are two of them. They ask me if I know where I am. I mumble at them as they untie my hands. I pull the thing off my face, trying to focus on it – a thin loop of tubing, more tubing trailing from my arm. Someone grabs my wrist, I pull away. They're trying to calm me down, which makes me struggle more.  _I_  can't even understand what I'm saying. But I soon tire, and it's lights out again.

* * *

I still don't know where I am, not really. I just have a few memories – flashes – of Price and Nikolai talking to me, putting me in the back of the helo. A lot of pain, my head spinning. A bunch of Russians dressed up like Afghans…now there's something you don't see every day. Being carried through dark tunnels. Bright lights. Poking, prodding, and even more pain. The doctor, Misha, telling me I'd be okay - they always say that. The look on Price's face said something else. I don't remember anything after that, until I woke up here, staring at the gray ceiling. I think Price and Nikolai came to see me at some point. Thought I heard American voices too. Maybe I was dreaming.

It's hard to stay awake, and not just from being more tired than I've ever been. Waking up means facing it all. The pain of my wounds. The pain of our betrayal. The pain of failure. Worst of all, the loss of Simon, Gary, and everyone else. The rest of our team dead. Like Price at the bridge, I've lost them all.

He was my best mate, Simon. The brother I'd never had. I was one of the only people who knew about the pills that kept his demons at bay, though he'd chosen not to share much about what haunted him. As stupid as it sounds, he'd now have peace at last.

Gary…he reminded me a lot of myself. I was proud of him, in the way that I'd hoped Price was proud of me, even as I'd often cursed him back in the day for driving me as hard as he did.

Where were they now? Have their bodies been found?

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. I can't do this now, not yet. I have to focus on the living. Have to get better, get my head back in the game. Get out of here. Get payback. And when the time comes, we'll raise our glasses to them, remember them properly…

But for now, I've nowhere else to go, fuck-all I can do. Not like I have a choice - I'm weak and helpless as a newborn. Medics come to check my dressings, and all the shit they've got attached to me. Soon the drugs pull me back under.


	2. DAY THREE

Since we picked him up in Petropavlovsk, he hasn't been the same. In fairness, he wasn't the same after Zakhaev.

We'd been calling him the Old Man for a while, now he was starting to look the part. When we found him, he looked exhausted. Thin, too. He'd taken quite a beating, but he wouldn't let the medics check him out. Everyone was concerned, but at the same time, how could we deprive him of a chance to get back in the fight? Maybe we were wrong, we were too happy to have him back, too full of our own success with the mission. We'd pulled that one off by the skin of our teeth. Maybe we –  _I_  – was too willing to look the other way. Shepherd didn't seem to give a toss.

True to form, Simon dared to say what the rest of us wouldn't, and he paid for it. Price lashed out at him, the rest of the lads backed down, end of. A pint or two later, it would all have blown over. No chance of that now. It's selfish of me, but I'm glad that wasn't how I'd left things with Simon. Almost - we'd had our differences of late.

Price is in a right state, his face all purple and swollen and cut up, one eye shut. His walk is slow and hunched over, and when he sits down in the chair, even he can't hide that he's in a fair bit of pain. He all but admits that he needs to be tucked up in bed himself - not for lack of trying on Misha's part, from what I hear. No one can tell Price anything, of course. Situation normal there.

It's good to see him, for your humble narrator is a miserable bag-o-shite. My gut feels like I'm being stabbed all over again. On top of it, I have the chills and I'm feeling a little out of breath. Misha told me I'm running a fever. Fuck knows what was in that river water, which I'd inhaled plenty of. So what did he do next? He and a couple of other medics got me out of bed and made me take a few steps, the bastards. They sat me back down just in time - I nearly blacked out, my legs felt like noodles. And the whole deep breathing thing – fuck me.

At least they've pulled most of the wires and tubes and god-knows-what. They've moved me to another room; looks like I've just been kicked out of what passes for an ICU. Now I only have one IV left taped to me, to pull out my remaining arm hair, one at a time. Cheers.

I figure he's come by for some low-key, buck-up-and-feel-better-soldier chitchat. It's expected of any good OC; I've done it myself. But I'm not ready for what he says next. Price, poster boy for the stiff upper lip, almost topped himself in prison. I'm speechless.

Then I'm angry, so angry that I forget how I'm feeling. Shepherd's betrayal had run much deeper than we'd thought. He'd sold Price out long before the Boneyard. The op in Prague hadn't just been an op gone bad, it had been a setup. The thought  _had_ entered some of our minds. Things had gone so wrong so quickly; it was almost convenient. But by our own CO? We never saw that one coming. Suddenly, this latest brush with death feels worth it. When we kill, it's not an emotional thing, just business. I'd been too busy bleeding out to react to Shepherd's death, but now I'm glad, so deeply satisfied that I finished that cunt. My only regret was that I'd done it too quickly.

Before his rescue, the sound of the scuffle over the radio when they took him had become my nightly companion. I'd played the scenario over and over in my head, wondering what I could have done differently. It had been one thing after another, and I'd been ready to call the whole thing off when Price picked their trail back up. He'd had them bang to rights. Come to think of it…the lorry that had almost run down Scarecrow and Ozone? Price had probably been laid out in the fucking back of it.

When he tells me what they did to him, I immediately stop feeling sorry for myself, ashamed.

What do you say to a man when he describes his torture to you? Especially when that man is your leader, friend and father figure? They nearly killed him with their bungling. Then along came Grach, handpicked by Makarov to nurse Price back to health so when the time came, they could take things nice and slow. The cunt even used his medical training to join in. One thing about growing up Catholic, you believe there's a Hell. Knowing that Grach wasn't – and isn't - the only one of his kind, it's almost a comfort. Turns out MacMillian's killers weren't IRA; Price never believed that anyway. It was Makarov's boys. After taking their time with Price, they had, and still have, similar plans for me. Join the club, you wankers – they have t-shirts.

Despite all the time that had passed, all the bullshit and dead ends, I never gave up on finding him, even though he'd given up on being found. I soon understand how he'd gotten to that point. My upbringing aside, I'd have probably reached the same conclusion. To think if we'd been a day later, maybe less, the mission would have been to recover his body instead. I'd have never forgiven myself.

A couple of hours fly by, and the pain creeps up. After Misha gives me the shot, I have to fight to stay awake for the best part: Price bashing Grach's head in. Put a fucking smile back on my face, let me tell you. The bastard had made some crack to Price about irony. Then he was more or less done in by his own gun, and not with the business end. How's that for ironic, you cunt?

I nod off, can't fight it anymore. I hope that telling me all this has helped him somehow. There's a certain… _hollow_  look to him. The damage has been done. It's clear now why he chased the 141's medics away. Simon had been right on the money. He'd been through some brutal shit himself, he knew what he was looking at. And there's something else, simmering just below the surface. I wonder what he _isn't_ telling me. On second thought, maybe I don't want to know.

If Price hadn't been through all that, would his actions at the sub been different? I tell myself no, that his difficult choice was the right choice. I keep telling myself that. I have to.

* * *

 He can't be fucking serious. Is this what he was keeping - didn't want to upset the guy in the hospital bed? No. It can't be all of it. He and Nikolai helpfully point out that I'd been too drugged up to hear it. All right…it's true, I was off my tits. If the story had come from anyone else, I wouldn't have believed it. We'd gone to ground only to run smack into the CI-sodding A. It just gets worse from there.

We all knew it was only a matter of time before the Yanks would be looking for us. After all, killing a US general does tend to attract unwanted attention. Now once again, I'm the one slowing us down, and trouble's about to come find us. Fuck this, we're out of here. I stand up.

Next thing I know, they're picking me up off the floor. Should have known better - story of my life, really.

I can't let this happen. I can't let Price get captured because of me. He's already paid dearly for what  _I've_  done. I have to push that out of my mind, thinking about it is too hard to take. Not that the next thought is any easier – the two of us in full-length orange, cuffed, shackled and hooded - we've both been labeled 'terrorists', right? He needs to just get the hell out of here. Any road, he won't hear of it. I knew he wouldn't.

Misha slips me the morphine while I'm not looking. I'd been putting it off, trying to clear the cotton wool from my brain. While I'm pissed off at him for being sneaky, the pain was getting to be too much. I'm thankful, though I'm too proud to admit it. Have to slow down and rest if I want to hurry up and heal. The medics shoo Price and Nikolai out of the room while they assess the damage. I'm all right as far as that goes, but by the time they're done, I'm out for the count.


	3. DAY FOUR - morning to afternoon

I'm staying awake longer now, and feeling much better - the IV antibiotics they've been pumping me full of are working. They give me some broth, which tastes like dishwater. Mmm. I force it down. If it stays down, they'll give me something a bit more substantial. Then I can start taking pain pills instead, so I'll be a bit more with it. If it doesn't, then I've got bigger problems. Coughing is painful enough, I don't even want to think about being sick. Then they'll want to stick a tube up my nose, and anyone coming at me with one of those fucking things is in for some serious aggro.

Careful what you wish for. Now that I'm awake all the time, it's boring. No TV or Internet. My recently-assigned 'friend' Sasha is hovering around here somewhere, but he's a shit conversationalist, barely speaks any English. That, and he's a surly bastard. Sergei stops by and chats for while, he's been tasked with keeping an eye on Price. He's all right. He leaves me some of his magazines to read…fashion magazines? Bony, tarted-up runway models. To each his own, I guess. Some of them are wearing leather and rubber, like dominatrixes. Oh, aye…maybe  _that's_  what he's into.

I picture her in some of these outfits, and suddenly the reading material gets a lot more interesting. She wouldn't be caught dead in anything like this. A smile begins, fades. Where is she now? How is she? Has she been told anything yet – if so, what? Then there's the things I haven't told her. That I need to, and now maybe never will. I've never felt this way about anyone else. Still haven't wrapped my head around that one.

What about my family?

I put the magazine down and go back to staring at the ceiling.

* * *

After the medics dose me with pain meds and do their worst, I have them fetch my journal. Some of the pages are stuck together. I pry them apart carefully; they are covered with blood. My blood. I begin to write in the corner of the reddish-brown page.

How many times  _can_ Price save my life?

I flip through the pages, all the memories. The truth is, I can't stop thinking about her. How she single-handedly turned my world upside-down. Challenged what I thought I knew. Opened my mind to things I'd thought impossible, thoughts I'd dismissed, like settling down. Maybe even becoming a father one day. Imagine that – me, somebody's da. Possibilities dangled in front of me, only to be snatched away again.

I look at my doodle of the sexy nurse, from when I was laid up in Russia. In my mind's eye, her face superimposes itself over the sketch. Ah, if only.

I find a page near the back, and start to draw her from memory. At least, I try. Long legs, athletic figure…no big shirt, though – fuck that. Fuck that ponytail too, I want her hair flowing around her shoulders. Smiling, probably about to call me a twat…

Shit, her face doesn't look right at all. Have I forgotten what she looks like already? Fuck! I tear the page out, crumple it into a little ball and toss it in the corner.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Wherever you are, I hope you are well, and that maybe you'll think of me now and then.

I fall asleep with the little black book in my lap. Some time later, I wake from dreams of dominatrixes and nurses…and her. I look down and sigh, dropping my head back to the pillow. At least  _that_ still works. Always good to know.


	4. DAY FOUR - afternoon

Something's wrong. I hear them coming long before they pass my doorway, carrying someone. A glimpse of blood snaps me to attention. Shite - it's Nikolai! They've got him in the next room. He's conscious - I can hear him talking - but it's all in Russian except for when he mentions Price. They'd gone topside together. What the hell is going on? Where  _is_  Price?

Delivery complete, Kamarov's men go charging back down the hall, all business. The medics are busy with Nikolai, no one's about to bother with me right now. As it should be…someone else is coming – Kamarov - wait! An upheld index finger is all I get in passing. Fucking hell!

The voices next door soon fade away. Oi…hey! Hello? Finally a medic wanders past, tidying up. He gives me an odd look when I ask what happened, and just keeps walking…doesn't speak English. My teeth on edge, I express my displeasure by punching the mattress. Mature, I know – piss off. I grab the covers and throw them aside.

Shouldn't have done that. I need a moment to sort myself out.

I push myself up, taking it slow this time. Yesterday didn't go so well, time for a do-over. The sutures in my gut issue another painful warning; I clutch a pillow against myself like they showed me, and ease along slowly until I'm sitting up on the bedside again. So far, so good.

Christ, that floor is cold.

The chair looks as good a destination as any for my test flight. I grip the edge of the bed, preparing for takeoff, when Misha walks in and sees what I'm up to. Before the words are out of my mouth, he tells me to wait and disappears.

Fuck me. And the role of the 'patient' is played by…

I'm a lot of things right now, mate, and patient isn't one of 'em.

Soon he's back and helps me maneuver into the chair. Once I'm settled, he answers my stream of questions: Nikolai's been shot, Price and one of the Americans are missing, and my clothes are no longer available, having been cut off when I came in.

Kamarov's back. Finally, I'll get some proper intel. The sight of me in the chair slows him down long enough to tell me I'm looking better before getting right to the point. The Russians have the hostiles on the run, a search party's been sent out, and I'll soon have company; they're finishing up with Nikolai, he's going to be all right. I ask about Price, and Kamarov reminds me that we both know better than to write him off too quickly. Too right, we learned that five years ago didn't we? With that, he's off again.

Misha gives me some pain pills – by this time I need them. He takes a good look at me, the way one examines dubious leftovers in the back of the refrigerator, then brings me some sort of porridge. Upgraded to wallpaper paste, now I'm dining in style. By the time I've wolfed that down, the Percocet has taken effect, and I feel like a new man.

That distraction over, it's back to the waiting game. Price out in the wild with one of the CIA guys, of all people…I'd like to be a fly on the wall for some of those conversations. If we're not rumbled by now, we're about to be. Could things get any worse?

Don't answer that.

Nikolai can tell me more. What's keeping them? I sigh. Oh nothing, he's only just been shot in the head, you numpty.

Kamarov…never thought we'd be seeing him, much less be saved by him again. I'd halfway wondered why he'd bothered to come back for us in the first place after yanking our chain in Azerbaijan and the resulting 'conversation' with Gaz. He'd told Price he'd owed him one, but I wouldn't learn why for a long time.

I'd almost been the lone survivor from that mission, and after the flight home without Price, I lost all contact with him. For a while, I wasn't sure if he'd made it.

Never found out who was callsign Baseplate that day. He'd better hope I don't. We'd barely managed to escape the launch facility only to be left to fend for our fucking selves. Backed into a corner, no chance. When we heard Kamarov's voice come over the radio, we couldn't believe it. I don't think anyone was happier than Gaz, though – fuck knows the man never won any prizes for diplomacy.

Three minutes is a long time. Especially when a split second can change everything.

They'd been closing in on us when everything went black. I came 'round to searing heat, yet I was shivering uncontrollably. Couldn't hear, could hardly see…my face was wet. Griggs dragged me away from the flames, tried to defend me. He was the first to fall, and when I looked at Price, neither of us said anything. We didn't have to. We both knew it would be over soon.

There are no words for what it felt like, seeing my mates cut down in front of me and being helpless to stop it. Those cunts just walked up to Gaz and the others so casually, like they were swatting flies. They'd do me next. And after that, would Zakhaev give Price a quick end to his suffering? Not bloody likely. He'd just lost his son, and trust me, he didn't give a shit about the details. He'd stand over the man who'd taken his arm, topped his kid - the man who was now struggling to breathe. He'd watch Price gasp for air, and he'd savor every moment while deciding what to do next.

Another split second, and with Kamarov's arrival, another chance. When Price slid me his pistol, it was all on me. I was the only one with a clear shot. It took all I had left - pushing through the pain, fighting to steady my trembling hands and focus my blurry vision on three small dots, three heads. I lasted long enough to make sure the bastards were dead, then I couldn't keep my head up anymore. Breathing had become difficult for me too, and I was fading fast.

I'd done it, though. I'd finally finished what Price had started…only to be left lying there unable to do anything but watch. Price was pale and still, a Loyalist soldier pounding on his chest. He wasn't responding.

We'd just saved the World, killed the bad guys…we were supposed to have won, right? As they were loading me into the Hind, the soldier stopped CPR. Zakhaev had gotten the last laugh.

Or so I'd thought - that's when I lost my own grip on consciousness. When I woke up, I was stunned to find that the Old Man was, in fact, still kicking. Kamarov's medic had been switched on, and worked it out: Price had been struck in the chest by debris from the explosion. Right then and there in the road, surrounded by burning wreckage, they stuck a bloody great needle into his chest. Drained the blood from around his heart so it could beat again. Approving of this, he took a breath. Knowing him, he'd probably been lying there all pissed off and wondering what was taking so long. Although they did nearly lose him a couple more times after that.

A few days later, the decision against moving him surprised no one. Swelling had prevented surgeons from closing his chest, so they had to wait it out before sewing him back up. Even while on life support, Price was letting us all know that exfil would be on  _his_ terms.

I wouldn't see him again for nearly two years.

Finally, I got word he was back in Hereford, and we caught up in a pub. Turns out he'd been shipped home not long after me, but had kept to himself. It stung a little, I won't lie. He was a bit evasive as to why, though I could hazard a guess. A body in motion wants to stay in motion. I'd learned first hand what a long recovery could do to you mentally, but for him that hadn't been all of it. On that last mission, retirement had been hanging over his head; he'd simply grown too old for the Regiment. The brush with death robbed him of his swan song. No blaze of glory, no loud drunken send-off with the lads, just waking up in hospital and finding out that it was all over. He'd spent his entire adult life in the Army. What was he going to do now, write a book? So he went on the Circuit, where he reported being 'bored as a pacifist's pistol', though he wouldn't share all of the details. Couldn't have been  _that_ dull, then.

A bottle of whiskey did nothing to loosen his tongue about it either, shame on me for thinking it would. But he did tell me a bit about his previous encounters with Kamarov. If the Russian Army was ever an ideal place to be, it wasn't back then. When a man's seen enough, and becomes numb enough, he'll tempt fate just to feel something. Kamarov had been reckless, all right. Had a proper death wish, and almost dragged Price down with him during an op in Beirut. I can't remember everything he said, though - my strategy had backfired, yours truly having gotten completely rat arsed. The night ended with a cab ride and him depositing me on my sofa before disappearing again.

This became something of a recurring theme, until the formation of the task force.

It really took me back, hearing him over the net with Roach. Price was, and still is, more of a father figure to me than my own da - well, my stepfather - I never knew my real da. I get on fine with my stepdad now, though I didn't when he first entered the picture, me being the teenager with hormones raging…

Since Roach hadn't joined the 141 until after Price had gone missing, the HALO jump into the snowy woods had been their introduction. To say that the Old Man's reputation preceded him – there's an understatement. Gary later admitted he'd been a bit awestruck, before the sub, before everything…changed.

…I owe him my life. At the very least, I owe him my loyalty.

You could try your hand at some cheap, afternoon talk show psychoanalysis and accuse me of somehow, deep down, still seeking his approval…and I'll deny it, tell you that you're dead wrong.

But that's not quite true, is it?

Ah, here's my new roommate. Nikolai's awake and miserable, and I'm told it's my job to keep him that way, at least for a couple hours. All right, then. He tells me the CIA's partner Delta team ran into drama while on a raid near the village, almost met the wrong end of a VBIED. Delta…yep, should've kept my gob shut. Then the OP suddenly got quiet, never a good thing. He remembers waking up on the ground to the sound of gunfire, until incoming mortars provided him with the proper motivation to start running. They'd wound up getting separated from Price and the spook, Buzz, who were going to take an alternate route back to the bunker. Sounds encouraging, except they should have been back by now...

Shite.


	5. DAY FOUR - evening

Nikolai has a splitting headache. Not surprising for someone who, until recently, had the jacket of a 7.62 round lodged deep in his ear. He wants to sleep, and I won't let him. Oi, don't look at me like that – it's my job. Besides, serves him right for telling Price whatever I'd been gobbing off about while coming out of the anesthesia.

He tells me I'm looking well, and that the job Shepherd did on my face is an improvement. The stitches, broken nose and two black eyes…it's something, all right. As for his head, I tell him I'm amazed that anything could penetrate something that dense. Good thing Price's instructions about a one-way trip hadn't, otherwise he'd be denied the pleasure of my company right now, poor sod.

He dismisses it with a wave of his hand, tells me that he hasn't forgotten what we did for him in Azerbaijan. He'd been a battered, bleeding mess when we'd found him, and that had just been the opening act. Zakhaev's boys had been warming up for the long slow finale. After whispering a few sweet nothings in his ear that would make any man blush, they'd put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger on an empty chamber, just to wind up him up. Second act was to be improv; one of 'em had just gone downstairs for the power tools when we'd cut the lights.

After a few days' rest in Hamburg, he was as good as new. He says it'll be the same for me; by tomorrow evening we'll be in Kamarov's safe house, where both of us can lie low for a while. It's remote and reasonably secure. There's a generator and plenty of diesel fuel, a satellite dish, food and basic medical supplies. Once Nikolai's up and about, he'll catch up with us in the helo and we can plan our next move. Maybe make our way to Africa – says he has a few favors he can call in.

Sounds good, if only I could share his optimism. We're looking at a cross-country trip in a land with few actual roads, even less law and order, both injured, with armed drones overhead and a tier one team soon in hot pursuit. What could possibly go wrong?

There's something else, something I don't want to even admit to myself. When Misha helped me out of bed, I'd needed it. I'm still unsteady on my feet. I have to sort myself out, and fast. I hold out a hand - it's shaking. And no wonder, I haven't eaten a proper meal in over three days. Not even sure I can tolerate one, but some scoff  _would_  be a start.

It's just one day's travel. Not even a full day. Deep breath, big smile – alright, just a comms check, that one…a full mag, a fistful of painkillers…and one long, bumpy ride later, I'll be fine.

Always the one being carried off on a stretcher. I sigh. No point in whinging about it now. We're out of options, out of time, and I'll be carried off in a bloody hearse before I let Price get caught on my account.

Misha, with Sasha in tow, comes to check on Nikolai. Once he's done tormenting him, he tells us Price and Buzz have been found. Thank fuck, although they're being escorted back by none other than the Delta lads. Brought back, or carted off to a waiting Gulfstream for the black bag treatment?

At the mention of Price, there's a sudden burst of Russian, along with some displeased expressions. I interrupt them to ask for some food. Soon, Misha tells me. How soon? He doesn't fucking answer, of course. The two take their chatter into the next room, where there is much rattling plastic and other noises of preparation.

Nikolai confirms that Price has pissed them off, Misha especially. He's not exactly sure how, though he says Price was being a bit of a pain in the arse earlier when he'd needed medical attention - wanted nothing to do with them. Nikolai catches himself and averts his eyes, as if he's just realized what he's  _really_ saying. I demand to know more. While the man  _was_  stoic, Price was also sensible, and had never made a fuss about being looked at when it was needed. Reluctantly, Nikolai tells me about the scars. My own skin crawls.

Now my mind is going full steam, whether I want it to or not. Yesterday when I fell, the medics had to restart my IV, and right before they stuck me, Price suddenly looked away. Since when was he squeamish about such things? I'd seen him help patch up some of the Regiment lads, for fuck's sake.

It didn't fit with what he'd told me, this. I'd been amazed that he'd even let his guard down that much. He's old school SAS, 'no sympathy in the Regiment' and all that. To think it had gotten even worse…my jaw muscles working, I shake my head. What else had that cunt Grach done to him?

Nikolai asks me to repeat that – who? I tell him again, though it's clear he heard me the first time. He gets real quiet for a moment, his face a mixture of anger and pity. 'The crow' he says with a slow nod – tells me every Russian here knows who that soulless bastard was. Makarov had known it, for sure. When even the Spetsnaz think you're fucked up, that's saying something.

Now I'm  _really_  looking forward to catching up with Makarov. No ROEs to get in our way this time - who says there's no upside to being fugitives? How it plays out will be Price's call. He's earned that right. If you want to give me some sort of tired old shit about the moral high ground here, I'll try very hard to take that as a compliment, since it's blokes like us that keep you in that comfortable bubble of yours. Better yet, try telling it to Price.

I pull the woolen shawl more tightly around my shoulders. If the mission to Rio had been greenlit earlier, if we'd gotten to Rojas sooner, maybe…

Nikolai shakes his head and gives me a stern look. 'Don't do that to yourself, my friend. You saved him, just like you saved me,' he says. 'I know what it's like, to look at the men standing over you and know that it doesn't matter how much of a man you think  _you_  are - soon enough, you'll be begging them to end it. When you showed up, I can promise you it was one of the best days of his life.'

Fair point. It shuts me up for a while.

After we'd burst into what can only be described as a dungeon, everyone who'd recognized 'Prisoner 627' had been in complete shock. Even Roach was on the floor. Heh, forget about the jump - I guess  _that_ was their introduction, if you want to get technical about it. When I gave Price his 1911 back to him, it was one of  _my_ best days, and no mistake.

His words echo in my mind:  _Have to trust someone to be betrayed. I never did._

The mission had been a great success, complete with a proper Hollywood action film style extraction with our 'package' – whom we'd not expected to see alive again. First round's on me, right?

Wrong. Now our CO had a problem. Though he might not have known who 627 was when he'd sent us to that frozen shithole in the first place, he'd probably had a pretty good idea of whom we'd find. One thing's for sure - Price had more than enough time to work out how he'd gotten there, and Shepherd knew it.

Once the initial relief had worn off, I can't imagine what was going through the Old Man's head. He'd only just been delivered from torture and slow death…straight into a game of cat-and-mouse with fucking Shepherd. The very man responsible for putting him there in the first place, who'd played us all for fools right from the start.

It all makes sense now. Remember what I said earlier, about Shepherd not giving a shit? Price's fitness for duty had been in serious doubt, yet he got his command back, sight unseen. No soldier wants to be left behind, but at Simon's insistence, I'd expressed my misgivings. Shepherd's response?

_Son, you've seen the look in his eyes. Now look into mine, and tell me…would you really have me deny this warrior a chance for retribution? **Any** chance? Could you do it?_

That was all it took – bastard knew it, too. My guilt and Price's own stubbornness put him right back in harm's way, which was exactly where Shepherd wanted him.

But for all of his scheming, he never expected what came next. Nobody did. When Price cut the radio connection, the rest of us just looked at each other like idiots. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? The outright insubordination was one thing – that was between the two of them. But the feeling that 'mistakes had been made'? That was something else entirely.

As we'd watched the missile disappear into the sky, it had occurred to me that, to top it all off, we might be ordered to detain Price - I'd have him at gunpoint for real this time. I'm ashamed to admit I'd been overwhelmed. Too much had happened that day, and when  _that_  didn't, I'd let my relief cloud my perspective. It kept me from seeing the bigger picture. Anyway, what had I been thinking - the task would probably go to a pack of 'high speed, low drag' Shadow Company wankers. Not sure which scenario would have been worse.

I'd assumed it was only a temporary reprieve. After all, Shepherd now had his best means to draw out Makarov - whom we were to find, fix and finish, as the Americans are so fond of saying. While he and Price would soon have to answer for what happened, he wasn't about to turn down a good opportunity.

Understatement of the fucking year. I sigh again - heavily. Allen never stood a chance…

…and after the Rybachiy mission, neither did we.

Oh, God. I lean back in the chair, close my eyes. Take a deep breath, get punished for it.

Giving the Yanks a fighting chance hadn't been Price's only accomplishment at the sub base. The nuke had been the tipping point, the moment that Shepherd decided to deal with us once and for all.

Nikolai nods, points out that Shepherd's game had literally blown up in his face. Price, his greatest asset, had just become his greatest liability…oh, aye. While Shepherd had gotten his precious blank check, he now also had the immediate attention of every intelligence agency that mattered. And given some of his 'extracurricular activities', that simply wouldn't do.

And afterward? For once I'd been glad of Simon's sunglasses; I don't think I could have looked him in the eye just then. The look on Roach's face had been bad enough.

The trouble with false flag operations like the airport, they're a messy business. Our primary objective had never been what it seemed. It wasn't just about neutralizing Makarov, it was about  _silencing_  him. After that, Shepherd might need to silence  _us._  But Price forced his hand. There's no doubt in my mind now, whether in Afghanistan or the Caucasus, we were sent there to die. The kill/capture order? That was insurance.

Had we truly meant that little to him from the beginning, had we always been destined for the bin? Honestly, I'd have to say I don't think so. I'd never gotten a bad read from him. Hell, I'd  _liked_ the bloke – most of us did. Well Simon didn't, but he didn't like anyone.

You know what they say, all the best liars believe themselves.

Like Price, Shepherd was one of those larger-than-life figures. You felt his presence before he entered a room. Even so, he never made you feel like you were beneath him. He was strong yet competent enough to know when to step back. He got shit done, and his men loved him for it. He'd been very supportive of my leadership in the task force before Price finally came aboard. Who knew that a few years later, after failing to shoot me in the face with a .44, he'd settle for plunging a knife into my guts. And I thought we were mates.

For him it had been the old standby, the so-called greater good. My own words haunt me now; in my journal, I'd used that very phrase to justify Price's actions. It's amazing; with the right mindset, a man can rationalize almost anything, even cu- …even men like Grach. After having lost 30,000 troops, Shepherd had been able to rationalize quite a bit. Right before pulling the trigger, he'd sounded almost apologetic, like it wasn't personal. Maybe not. The eyewitness chibbing, on the other hand…I feel a smile coming on. Just a little one, don't worry. Hey, at least I got one out of Nikolai.

His headache is getting the better of him; I can see him squinting at the light, shying away from it. I can't help but feel for him there. I've had more than my share of knocks on the head, like the recent extreme close-up of Shepherd's boot. If I hadn't had more pressing needs at the time, I'd have been in the same boat he's in now – no quality pain medication and some twat talking my ear off.

As time passes, the talk is getting smaller, the silences longer. More and more, Nikolai's mumbling under his breath in Russian. Some variation of 'fuck off', I'm sure. He's tired, and is done being a gentleman about it. The bullet had nicked an artery; he'd lost a fair amount of blood, enough to where he could have done with a transfusion, but it seems all the top-shelf stuff had already been consumed by...who else? Business as usual. Looks like it's a glass of orange juice and a biscuit for you, pal.

That definitely sounded like 'fuck off'.


	6. CONCLUSION

It's been long enough. I let Nikolai sleep. Misha sticks his head in the door, tells me I'll get something to eat as soon as it's ready. About fucking time _._ He looks at Nikolai, then at me. I raise an eyebrow – shite, that pulls at my stitches - and he sighs, gives me a nod.

Good on Nikolai. Not so good for me, though. Now nothing is stopping me from thinking about the charges against us. Terrorism? These days, the accusation is almost as good as fact. I think about that…and the sub. My stomach does a somersault. Regardless of the outcome, that had been a  _nuclear fucking missile_  - impossible to put  _that_  particular brand of toothpaste back in the launch tube. In light of that, not too hard to make the label stick, and easy to pile more charges on top of it, like… _treason?_ Against whom?

If anyone's guilty of treason, it's Shepherd. Bastard was clever, I'll give him that. No matter what the situation, he always found a way to turn it to his advantage. What a tidy way to wrap it all up: accuse  _us_ of the intel leaks and involvement in the airport attack, then make sure no one's left alive to tell a different tale. Unintentionally, Price had provided him with the very means to do so.

_History is written by the victor_. Thought that was us. The Old Man's not often wrong, however…Shepherd's dead, but  _his_  version of history is still very much alive.

At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if OPSEC were violated in favor of some real Washington-style damage control, regardless of their relationship with the MOD. Shepherd's handlers would need to put some distance between their newly minted martyr and us. So the next step would be a carefully orchestrated 'leak' to the press.

More agony for my family. Bad enough their son is MIA, and that their phone calls, emails, bank activity…not to mention their comings and goings will be monitored. Before long, they won't want to leave the house anymore. Among other things, the Internet has made it easier than ever to stir up a mob - and the truth means sweet fuck-all.

It's getting harder to keep my anger in check. My sister, my parents…they never did anything to anyone.

Shite…and after everything else, what will it do to her military career, to be associated with me? I scrub a hand across my eyes.

Second chances are rare in this life. I know, I've had a few. If there's one thing I can impart to you, it's not to let them pass you by. There's no telling what the future holds, or  _how much_ everything can change in that split second.

You might say that in our line of work, we get to live in the moment. So do you, the difference is you just don't realize it, until that moment has already come and gone.

Some philosopher – I can't even take my own advice. There's so much I've left unsaid. Now I'd give anything to let her know how I feel. I get shot at for a living - I jump out of  _airplanes_ , mate. Yet I hadn't had the balls to say a few simple words.

I don't want her last memory of me to be some grainy photo and tawdry headline. I can see it now, splashed across the front page of birdcage-liners like the  _Sun_ : 'TASK FARCE – SHEPHERD'S FLOCK RUNS AMOK' or some such bollocks.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Fuck. I'm not going down like this. There has to be a way to clear our names, but how?

The DSM. As soon as Simon and Gary got to the exfil point with it, they'd suddenly outlived their usefulness. If Shepherd was willing to kill for it, that same information might help vindicate us. But it's gone now…probably destroyed as soon he got it. Fuck knows. For now, I have to find Price and we need to get out of here.

I thought they'd said he was on his way back, so where is he?

Nikolai's sleeping without a care in the world. Must be nice. I rest my chin in my hand, feeling a week's worth of stubble. I'm thinking about how if I don't shave soon I'm going to give Price a run for his money, when in walks the man himself, along with his entourage – Sergei and Bogdan.

Well, fuck me…I'm at a loss for words. Gobsmacked - there's a word. Looks like he's fought a war all by himself.

As usual, he demands a sitrep and I give him one. I've never been much of a poker player; my mouth is twitching. I shake my head. Only him. I wind up laughing anyway – ow, shite - hope I didn't rupture something. If only the lads could have seen this.

Forget what you see in TV and film, being a sniper is far from glamorous, as it involves a great deal of crawling through the muck. Even so, Price always seemed to have a talent for coming out of it with barely a hair out of place. The rest of us would be covered with crap, but it was like he was Teflon-coated. Not today. He's sporting that just-dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards look, absolutely covered in dirt from head to toe. His clothing – his trousers, especially – is in tatters. Think I'll skip the rear view.

But the situation's under control - the hat's still on. Maybe it's been glued to his head with all that dried blood, looks like a scalp laceration. He's clearly pleased to see me sitting up. He seems to be back to his old self, acting like he meant to do all of it…except for the red spatter all over the floor, this time from his forearm.

The mess gives me a way to dodge his questions about how I'm feeling. The look he's giving me is a lot like the one from Misha, and I can't say I like it much. Fuck that, I'm good to go. Pain is only temporary, right? He taught me that.

Our little reunion disrupts Nikolai's beauty sleep - the beauty part has yet to take place. Price wastes no time in winding him up, but lets him off the hook almost immediately. Now  _that's_  unlike him, for sure…but maybe because it's unlike Nikolai too, he's normally a pretty quiet bloke. I'm about to call Price out for getting soft in his old age when a triple threat appears in the doorway: Kamarov, Misha and Sasha – unfortunately for Nikolai, who's treated to a fresh round of piss-taking. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Now it's Price's turn to get a dose of shit, for giving the medics a hard time earlier. Definitely no love lost there. Now I see what Nikolai meant…and that look that just passed between Kamarov and Misha – what the fuck was that about?

Price will meet with Kamarov to discuss our next move, once he's made himself a bit more presentable. After that's sorted, the medics descend upon him. He's got wounds that need stitching, so into the next room he goes. I hear them tell him they're going to numb him up, and he hardly says two words after that. Wastes no time leaving when they're done. This sort of thing comes with the job. I've seen him knocked about and cut up plenty of times before, and he's never acted like this. I think about what Nikolai said, and I feel sick.

It serves as a good reminder of what – and  _who -_ we have on our to-do list.

I'm glad to see Sasha for once, since he's brought food. Not sure what it is, a stew of some kind. I don't care. I take a cautious bite and once I get started, down my neck it goes. He grunts at me and fucks off once he sees me tucking into it - ever the great communicator. Nikolai warns me to slow down. Too late. Didn't look that good but it might as well have been Sunday roast. I was right; this was exactly what I needed.

Time to think about who we're up against. No, not the local goon squad, though it's a mistake to underestimate them. I'm talking about Delta. Practically joined at the hip we are, Delta and SAS. I wonder if any of these guys know Price. There are regular visits to Credenhill, and he's been to Fort Bragg – jokingly referred to as 'Fort Brass' in Regimental circles – quite the layout, from what I hear. In typical style, they've got all the latest and greatest kit, air support, and of course, the UAVs. Should be a great help in tracking our arses down. I groan aloud.

But technology isn't infallible. As Nikolai says, the locals have been proving that point for the last thirty-odd years. Just did it again this afternoon. Will we be able to do the same?

Looks like we'll soon find out.

Intent on getting back to sleep, he makes another good point: I'd better rest up as much as I can. I give him the obligatory response: yes, dear. I manage to steer my IV pole back to home base without any dramas and come in for a soft landing. Although I'm sure the safe house will have most of the comforts, I've been in this business long enough to never take a real bed for granted. You tend not to know when you'll get to sleep in another.

As long as I move slowly, the pain's not too bad. I get settled back into my pillows. Hello again, gray ceiling. After staring at it for the better part of a week, I was starting to miss it.

Now comes the hard part: tuning it all out so I can get some sleep. As much as I can, while I still can. Nothing more I can do now except that. Price is back in the fold, we're both still standing and for the time being, still free – with friends watching our six. Taking care of  _us_ , just like we took care of them. Tomorrow's another day.

The ceiling stares back at me.

What I said before, about living in the moment? Well…she taught me something about that too.

It wasn't so long ago, when I'd finally had her all to myself for the first time. Never thought it might be the last.

It was only because I'd gone against my own nature, thrown my usual caution to the wind. Sod it all – I didn't care about my responsibilities anymore, what was proper. We'd just pulled it off; we had Price back, everyone had gotten out okay. So I'd taken what I wanted. Given her what  _she_  wanted. The skin of her neck was warm…her hair a soft, dark curtain. Tiny droplets of water sparkling like dew. She smelled good. A fresh, bright smell, like grapefruit…and as I breathed in that scent, pressing myself up against her, I...

I look over at the corner, wondering if my crumpled drawing of her is still lying there.

This isn't over yet. Can't be.

Tomorrow, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original end note (abbreviated), 12/31/2012 -
> 
> And thus ends the MacTavish characterization experiment that grew legs. It's been like having a mohawked hand puppet that I use to say fun stuff in Kevin McKidd's voice. I couldn't have done that without the help of Sassy Satsuma and Lisbet Adair – what's everyday conversation to them is often pretty foreign to me.


End file.
